


Happy Returns

by Whisky (whiskyrunner)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-25 01:35:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3791719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskyrunner/pseuds/Whisky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Arthur's birthday, only he doesn't celebrate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Returns

**Author's Note:**

  * For [grizzly_bear_bane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grizzly_bear_bane/gifts).



> This is a continuation of my old silly [Wingman verse](http://whiskyrunner.livejournal.com/tag/wingman%20verse) which I first wrote when I was a brand new baby fanfic writer. I haven't touched it in awhile, but Bear wanted a fic in this verse for his birthday and I was a surprisingly good friend and actually wrote one. \o/

Eames has known Arthur long enough now to know better than to disrupt his careful routine with anything unexpected, which is presumably why he gives Arthur ample warning before coming over in the evening. He brings the dog along more often than not, so Arthur isn't particularly surprised to see Sam at his side when he answers the door.

 

“Hello gorgeous,” Eames says smoothly. Sam just laughs up at Arthur, his whiskery sea lion face parted in a wide grin.

 

“Hey.” Arthur lets himself be kissed, deeply. He likes Eames' kisses; even the scratchy stubble kisses. “Long time no see.”

 

They'd had breakfast at Eames' house just that morning. Eames grins.

 

“Well, Sam missed you terribly. He's learned a new trick for you, you know. Ask him 'where's the bag?'”

 

Arthur does talk to the dog sometimes, but not where anyone can hear him. He obeys, though, after making a face to express his feelings on the matter.

 

“Okay, uh. Where's the bag, Sam?”

 

Sam cocks his head and has to be told a second time before he suddenly dashes out the front door, which is still open, onto the porch. He reappears a moment later carrying a long, slim bag in his mouth, stumbling when it knocks against his front legs. He places it down between Arthur and Eames and looks from one to the other, as if not sure who to expect a reward from.

 

It comes from Eames, as always. “You clever boy,” he says, dropping to one knee and feeding Sam treats from his pocket. Arthur's gotten over the fact that he dates a man who has dog biscuit crumbs in his pockets. “Tell him he's a clever boy, Arthur.”

 

“Pretty good, Sam,” Arthur admits, and the dog laughs up at him, tail wagging with delight. Eames gets up, shuts the door with his foot, and offers the bag to Arthur.

 

It's a bottle of white wine, a nice one. “Oh, wow,” Arthur says, searching for more adequate thanks. “Eames, thank you.”

 

Eames leans in to kiss him again, and says, “I told him I'd say he paid for half—you know how terribly jealous he gets.”

 

“I know. Thanks, both of you,” Arthur says, because he's learned that things like that make Eames very happy, and it's worth it to be caught addressing the dog when Eames beams at him. He puts the bag down on a table and asks, “What's the occasion?”

 

“Well ...” Eames hesitates, and Arthur realizes just a second before he says it. “It is your birthday, I believe.”

 

“—Yes,” Arthur says, after a pause. “How did you—”

 

“I got it off your driver's license. I'm sorry, I'm nosy, I know—”

 

“What,” Arthur says, his face hot, “did Sam demand to know my star sign or something?”

 

“Well, no,” Eames says, abashed, and then quickly adds, “But you should know I'm a Leo, darling, there's a lot of compatibility there.”

 

Arthur sighs, shoving his hands into his pockets. It's hard to be mad when Eames is this earnest. “You are nosy.”

 

“Terribly, I know. But, perhaps you were unaware—one generally celebrates one's birthday by receiving presents.”

 

“One generally celebrates one's birthday,” Arthur replies. “I don't.”

 

Unlike most people, upon learning this, Eames doesn't frown or exclaim or demand a reason, which is really why Arthur likes him so much. “I supposed, given that you hadn't told me the date,” he says. “But, you know, it needn't be a birthday present. Maybe it's just a random gift for my lovely boyfriend. I do that, you know. Sam and I are terribly romantic that way.”

 

“Fine,” Arthur says, because he wants the wine. “Thanks for the random gift.”

 

Eames is beaming again. “Excellent,” he says. “I thought, on this utterly random day, we might have a nice stress-free evening. We can order in food so you won't need to cook at all, and Sammy and I will stay here tonight so we don't mess with your routine...”

 

Arthur feels his face start to heat up again. Is he really so transparent?

 

Eames looks a bit crestfallen when Arthur doesn't react. “Arthur?”

 

“Sorry. That sounds fine.”

 

“Yeah?” says Eames, studying him.

 

“Yeah,” Arthur says. “I just have to shower.”

 

“Okay. I'll order the food.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Arthur slips away to his bedroom on the main floor, to the ensuite where his shower is. He can hear Eames padding around until he turns the water on and shuts the glass door. Normally he showers before Eames comes over, but today he's glad he didn't, so that he has this excuse to slip away for awhile.

 

Eames must think he's a child, to be coddled and protected from his neuroses. The embarrassment eats at Arthur. He _is_ , really, that's the worst part. He _doesn't_ like to cook when Eames is over, so that there's no risk of Eames catching him mid-ritual afterward. (He has to touch each of the appliances, before he goes to bed; but he can only have positive thoughts in his head, because if he thinks a negative thought, if he lets any of his fears in while he's touching one of them, he must start over, erase the negativity with a new thought; and they must all be touched an equal number of times, and—)

 

It's stupid and exhausting, is what it is, and the bold part of himself says that he wouldn't do any such thing if Eames were here to witness it. He only does these rituals because doing them makes it easier to sleep. It would bug him all night otherwise, so why not? It doesn't hurt anyone. It might itch at his brain for awhile, but he could ignore it. This is the same part of his brain that decided he'd gotten better since he started dating Eames, and he doesn't want Eames to think he has a weird boyfriend, so why not stop taking the meds? The truth is that some days, being with someone like Eames makes him think he can do anything.

 

But there's a realist in him who's afraid he wouldn't be able to stop himself, even if Eames were to walk in and see.

 

But Eames has noticed, all by himself. Or at least, he knows that cooking is related to Arthur's anxiety. Why, why can't Arthur have his crazy, stupid compulsions under control?

 

He scrubs himself hastily. He always showers before potential sex; it's just good sense. Anyway, it helps him relax. He feels better by the time he steps out of the shower and starts drying off. It's not like Eames was mocking him; he was trying to be kind, like always. Arthur keeps that in mind when he goes back to the living room.

 

Eames smiles when he returns. He's found a movie on TV, some blockbuster from a couple years ago Arthur's heard of but never seen. His birthday conveniently has fallen on a Friday this year, so he can fit a movie into his schedule. He slides onto the couch next to Eames, who slings an arm around him. He's put a glass of wine on the coffee table for Arthur and a glass of what looks like 7-Up (Arthur doesn't have Sprite in his fridge; there's a difference and he can tell) in front of him.

 

“I hope I didn't offend you, before,” Eames says, his voice a soft burr in Arthur's ear. “I didn't intend to.”

 

“No, no, it's just—” Arthur huffs a laugh, quickly. “You noticed.”

 

“I'm a noticer,” Eames says, in rueful tones. “I notice things. Not the first time it's gotten me into trouble, I'm afraid.”

 

“You're not in trouble. I just—” Arthur takes a deep breath, but Eames cuts him off.

 

“You don't have to tell me anything, Arthur. Not unless you want to and you're ready to.” Arthur's silent, and Eames adds, “I don't tell you everything.”

 

Arthur laughs again, a little forced this time. “Like who you're cheating on me with?”

 

“Never.” Eames kisses his temple.

 

It's not so far outside the realm of possibility, though. Arthur's a—nobody, just some lawyer, not even the interesting kind you see on TV but the kind that spends most of his day doing paperwork plus two hours commuting because his therapist found out he likes gardening and encouraged him to move to the suburbs where he could cultivate a real garden, who can't use the stove or go to bed without making sure every light in the house is off. And Eames, Eames is clever and handsome and English and could have anyone, could have someone who likes dogs a lot more than Arthur does. But he likes Arthur, for some reason, so Arthur tries very hard not to question it. Some days he watches the reality shows on TLC and it's an odd sort of comfort that there are people weirder than him out there with devoted partners. TLC, Arthur feels, is proof that there is someone out there for everyone, even if they eat potting soil or have a hundred pet guinea pigs.

 

He hopes Eames is his someone. And so, because Eames didn't ask him any questions, he doesn't either.

 

The movie starts. Action and suspense, two male leads with unintentionally homoerotic dialogue. Their Chinese food arrives: Eames pays the delivery man and they balance plates in their laps while eating spring rolls and chow mein. At the first commercial, Eames slides his hand over and twines his fingers with Arthur's.

 

“May I ask why you don't celebrate your birthday?” he says.

 

Arthur shrugs. “I don't know,” he says, feeling foolish because he never has a good reason for anything, it seems. “Nobody to celebrate with, I guess. After my mom died my dad had to work a lot and he just forgot, most years. You know, eventually he'd remember and take me out for a steak dinner or something and that was always nice. But I got used to not expecting anything on the day. I've never really been with anyone long enough to do birthdays, and I don't want the attention at work. So.” Another shrug. “It's not a big deal.”

 

He waits for Eames to say how terribly sad that is. Instead, Eames says, “I don't mind celebrating with you. I'm certain Sam doesn't, either.”

 

At his name, the dog pops up from where he'd been chewing on the Kong toy containing his kibble dinner. Arthur leans down to pet him without thinking. His plate tips a bit and a shrimp falls to the floor. Sam, basking in Arthur's attention, looks at it but doesn't move—too polite. Arthur grabs it up fast, anyway.

 

“Five second rule,” says Eames, looking over.

 

Arthur's frozen, though, thinking about the dirt and dead skin cells and dog hair that's accumulated on the carpet since he vacuumed yesterday. This is not an OCD thing—this is a normal-person, conscious of germs thing.

 

“—Or give it to Sammy,” Eames says, a second later. “But make him work for it.”

 

Freed, Arthur looks down at the dog who has stopped grinning and looks deeply serious, apparently aware that shrimp is now on the line. His eyes are wide in his bristly face. Arthur doesn't have much imagination—he tells Sam to sit and then lie down, both of which Sam does immediately and with exaggerated effort, hitting the floor like there's a grenade. He takes the shrimp gently from Arthur's fingers and then bolts it down. His dog mouth is dirty anyway, Arthur reasons.

 

“Good boys,” Eames says, getting comfy again as the movie comes back on. Arthur sits back, reflecting. Eames makes everything easy.

 

 

&

After the movie's over and the plates are in the sink, they stumble into the bedroom together. Eames shuts the door to keep Sam out, though he's still occupied with his toy.

 

“You want to top?” Eames asks against Arthur's mouth, breathing raggedly between kisses. He asks this question often, like he needs to reaffirm Arthur's comfort level with getting fucked. Eames is a gentleman; polite, like his dog. Arthur shakes his head, as he always does. Though it may seem incongruous, he _likes_ letting Eames fuck him. He likes having somebody to take him out of his own head, to remove control from him for awhile and take care of everything. He likes to stop having to think. Thinking is exhausting.

 

“I want you,” he manages, and Eames groans and rocks against him and he's so hard, Arthur can feel his erection through their clothes. It gives him the same thrill as always, the impossible knowledge that he does this to Eames. He makes Eames want him. It's exciting and heady.

 

“God,” Eames breathes, and for a while they just kiss, dropping onto the bed together. Arthur rolls on his side and lets Eames capture his face in both hands, kissing and kissing him. He might do this all night, so it's Arthur who has to pull away first and start wriggling out of his clothes. Eames takes the hint and sheds his own clothes in record time, then pulls Arthur back to him. His free hand travels down Arthur's spine to the small of his back, and then further. “Oh, pet,” he murmurs, finding Arthur smooth and hot for him there. “You're perfect, Arthur, so perfect for me.”

 

He grabs the lube from the bedside table drawer and rolls Arthur onto his back. He kisses him again, but Arthur can hear the snap of the cap of lube, and Eames' fingers come back, slick and tracing little teasing circles around Arthur's rim. Arthur groans and gives him a little kick, but Eames is patient; he's always patient.

 

“Ready?” he asks and Arthur nods, takes a deep breath and lets it go and that's when Eames presses his finger in. Just one, at first, quickly followed by a second when he realizes Arthur had given himself some preliminary prep in the shower. It makes the stretch much more bearable, especially when Eames starts stroking his free hand up and down Arthur's arms, his sides, his stomach. Each one of Arthur's muscles is uncoiling. He's always tense, always tight, sometimes too much to be fucked. But a lot of foreplay helps and Eames is patient.

 

He knows what Eames isn't telling him. Eames is an alcoholic, or he used to be. He's never said it, but Arthur knows, and Arthur can live with that. He didn't like the smoking, but Eames has quit since they met, and being a recovering alcoholic isn't so bad. Not like having mental issues. Eames must think something terrible happened to him, like his mother must have died in a house fire, and that's why Arthur is so cautious when it comes to flames. Arthur is not a dishonest person, but he hopes Eames goes on thinking that forever. He wants Eames to always look at him the way he is now, like Arthur is some amazing, precious person. Not like he's crazy—even if he is. He wants to be perfect for Eames.

 

He groans again when Eames moves away from him, without removing his fingers. Eames gives him a last peck and then slides down the bed to suck and swallow him down. Arthur writhes—gasping uselessly, “Eames, _Eames_ ”—and Eames just drags the flat of his tongue up to the tip of Arthur's cock before diving back down again. He's horribly, _incredibly_ good at this. He rubs and kneads Arthur's thigh, encouraging him to relax some more, and amazingly, it works: Arthur barely notices him slipping a third finger in, gently working him open. Eames keeps him just on the brink of coming, bringing his hand up to Arthur's hip to keep him from bucking up, even though he wants to. It takes awhile—Arthur is gripping the sheets in one hand and with the other he pushes his fingers through Eames' soft hair, scratching gently at his nape because he knows Eames likes that and he likes to hear Eames' moan and to feel it around his cock—but eventually, Eames wriggles a fourth finger in. Arthur drops his head back onto the pillow and swallows repeatedly, trying to control the sting behind his eyes.

 

“I'm ready; do it,” he says hoarsely, because he knows it won't ache less but he'll feel better having Eames' cock inside him than his fingers. Eames draws away at once, rolls off the bed altogether and leaves Arthur shivery, cool air on his wet cock.

 

“Stay put, love,” Eames says, and disappears into the bathroom. Arthur spreads his knees apart, looks up at the ceiling and concentrates on his breathing. Eames returns after a minute with a condom, smelling of mouthwash.

 

Arthur doesn't deserve him. Arthur wants to keep him forever. He reaches, blindly finds the back of Eames' neck and pulls him into a slightly frantic, mint-flavoured kiss: afraid, all of a sudden, that Eames will realize how inadequate he is, that Arthur is not worth this amount of foreplay, that Eames will push into him and realize this. For a second he wants to stop Eames from fucking him at all, breathlessly afraid in a way he's never been that once Eames is inside him, he'll see all of Arthur's carefully-hidden secrets.

 

But Eames leans back, cups his face and says, “Alright? Ready?” and Arthur nods at once and says “Yes,” because he is, and he does want Eames inside him. Eames kisses him again, lets Arthur draw his knees up and breathe, and when Arthur nods again he slides in, easing past the resistance Arthur's body puts up. He goes slow, watching Arthur's face, and Arthur is careful to just keep breathing. It'll feel good in a minute—it will, and then it _does_ , and he hears himself make a weak little sound and feels himself unclench, and Eames is all the way in.

 

This is what Eames is best at: finding ways past Arthur's defenses, taking control from him without wresting it away, preserving Arthur's trust. He thinks Arthur is worth this. He sets a slow pace to start, gets Arthur squirming around him in anticipation. Laughs his low, raspy laugh and says, “Impatient, are we?”

 

“Yes—I want you to _fuck me_ ,” Arthur says succinctly, because what Eames is doing now, these lazy rocking thrusts, doesn't count. “Come on.”

 

Eames grins, leans over him and starts fucking harder. It's too much, but too much is better than not at all. He grips Eames' shoulders, and Eames presses down and pants against his neck, stubble scratching Arthur's skin. It's so easy this way—to forget there's anything wrong with him, to switch off his brain and _stop worrying_ for as long as it lasts. He wonders what it would be like to let Eames restrain him, to be unable to move and put everything, all of himself, into Eames' hands and trust Eames to make him feel good. He does trust Eames. He trusts Eames more than he trusts himself, more than anything real. He catches Eames' gaze when Eames leans back and holds it, trying to convey this. Eames must mistake this for him needing reassurance, because he says, again:

 

“You're perfect, Arthur.”

 

He's not, he's not, but Eames thinks he is and maybe here, in bed, he can be. He spreads his legs instead of wrapping them around Eames, tries to push himself down onto Eames' cock, take as much as there is to take. It's so much, too much, and he wants all of it. Eames grunts at his wriggling; the air between them is thick and hot and stifling.

 

“I want—” Arthur gasps, senselessly, and Eames clasps his face.

 

“What do you want, Arthur?”

 

“My hands.” He arches, gets his arms over his head, hands braced against the flat headboard. “Hold them.”

 

At once Eames shifts his weight, wraps his big hand around Arthur's wrists. He leans, then, resting his weight on Arthur, and trapping him effectively.

 

“This is what you like, is it?” He looks awed, but he's not even questioning it, he's just _doing it_. “I'll let go if you tell me to,” he says. “I've got you.”

 

Arthur tests his grip. The angle is terrible, he has no leverage, Eames has got him. Eames is covering him, inside him, taking care of him like he knows Arthur needs, and the sudden relief this brings is so profound that Arthur nearly comes just from this; like some tiny voice is whispering to him, _It's okay. It's okay now_.

 

He has Eames and he's okay now.

 

“What else d'you want?” Eames asks, slowing down. He props himself onto his elbow, still holding down Arthur's wrists, and with his other hand he hikes Arthur's knee up a bit, against his side.

 

“Want you inside me.” He shuts his eyes when he feels Eames' fingers trace the rim of his hole, clenches hard enough to make Eames hiss softly. But he keeps petting, keeps circling that place where they're joined while he pumps in and out, so he must like how Arthur tenses and arches under him. Arthur's sweating, clenching his restrained hands into fists, struggling to string words together in sensible order. “I want you like this, right here—want you to stay, and do this again in the morning, and tomorrow night, _every_ night—”

 

“I will, I will,” Eames breathes out against Arthur's neck, where he's mouthing and kissing.

 

“I want you to _fuck_ me,” Arthur says; the word is nearly a sob.

 

“I will. You're so perfect—” And he is, he's fucking Arthur properly again, his hand flexing around Arthur's wrists. Arthur can barely rock down to meet him anymore but he manages, using his hips, and they find a rhythm. Eames hikes Arthur's knee up even higher, and then bends him almost in half, fucks in so _deep_ that Arthur nearly screams, and it's so good—it's so good—it's so good.

 

“Keep going,” he says, his breaths catching in his chest, terrified that Eames will stop. “Don't stop, don't stop, _Eames—_ ”

 

“I won't,” Eames says, “I've got you.”

 

It hurts and it's too much; it hurts and it's not enough. It hurts like the sweetest pain Arthur's ever felt, better than any drug. He needs that hurt. It keeps him tethered to earth, to Eames. It keeps him in his own body and lets him leave his thoughts behind. Eames is rubbing circles over his stomach, soothing.

 

“God,” Arthur hears himself moaning, “you make me feel so good—”

 

Eames doesn't answer, just squeezes his wrists and kisses him. When he pulls away Arthur is babbling.

 

“No one else—no one ever—”

 

“I know. It's okay,” Eames says, his eyes soft.

 

It seems very important to say this: “You make me feel better.”

 

Eames groans, surges into him hard and catches Arthur's mouth for another kiss when it falls open in a gasp. Then he stops touching Arthur's stomach, drops his hand to Arthur's leaking cock and starts stroking him off quickly, and that's all it takes. Arthur's climax is blinding.

 

He's panting as he comes back down, and Eames is rapidly losing his rhythm, the aftershocks of Arthur's orgasm making him tremble and clench around Eames helplessly. Before Arthur has to push him away, over-sensitized, Eames drops his head and comes with a strangled sound, pushing himself as deep into Arthur as he can get.

 

He lets go of Arthur's wrists slowly, and Arthur flexes his arms. Parts of him feel numb and he's not sure if it's from his orgasm or from the glasses of wine he drank earlier. He feels sated and sluggish and sore and he doesn't even care when Eames pulls out of him and says, “God, you're filthy, I'm sorry.”

 

“Just get me a Kleenex,” Arthur says, but Eames does him one better and goes back to the bathroom, when he's caught his breath. He returns with a damp towel, and uses it to wipe Arthur off. Arthur hadn't thought he could feel better, but he does, without lube and come stuck to his skin. He thinks, this is how normal people feel after sex.

 

Eames makes him normal.

 

He watches Eames tie the condom off and throw it in the trash, then climb back into bed and wrap an arm around Arthur. Eames is heavy and muscular with soft edges, and Arthur likes having the weight of him there. He's a little embarrassed, now, about all the words he'd let spill out while Eames was fucking him, and he trails his fingertips up and down Eames' arm wordlessly. He's embarrassed. But he meant them.

 

Eames shuts his eyes, like a purring cat under Arthur's attention, then opens them and says, “Should I set the alarm?”

 

“Yes,” Arthur says, disturbed that he'd almost forgotten, because not getting up at the right time heralds a bad day. “Um—6:57.”

 

“If that's a concession to me, I'm touched,” Eames says, sitting up and turning the clock so Arthur can see while he sets the alarm. Then he turns it away again and lies back down, arm draped over Arthur's stomach again.

 

“It is,” Arthur says.

 

 

&

He dozes for maybe half an hour and then wakes quite abruptly. Eames has rolled away from him and is sound asleep, fortunately, and he doesn't notice when Arthur slips out of bed and pulls some pants on.

 

He thinks it was Eames who locked the door after Arthur let him in earlier. In fact, he's sure Eames did—but he has to check. Arthur has a perfectly clear memory: what he lacks is a confident memory. So he checks.

 

He didn't have to when they first started dating. He was on medication back then. But he's not anymore. He's better now.

 

The door is locked. To make absolute sure, he unlocks it. The deadbolt rasps back. He locks it and the deadbolt slides into place with a satisfying clack. He does it again, to make sure everything is functioning as it should, and then a third time. Three more times. Three more after that, and after the ninth time he locks it, the clack of the bolt sliding home eases something in him, some troubled knot that told him the other times were not correct enough. The door is locked and he's safe. They're all safe.

 

He has to check. If he does, it doesn't hurt anybody. He knows his house probably won't burn down or be broken into if he doesn't check, he _knows that_. But if he doesn't check—what if it does happen? What if he or Eames gets hurt? How does he live with that—knowing he didn't do everything in his power to prevent it from happening?

 

He goes back to the living room and turns on the lamp they'd had on while they watched the movie. Then he crouches down, finds the wire running from it, and feeds it through his hands to make sure it hasn't been chewed on or frayed. He doesn't think Sam would chew a wire, but what if he did, and Arthur didn't see? The wire is okay. He turns the lamp off and back on, looking for sparks. Off and back on again—and again—

 

A sound makes him swivel around, heart pounding. It's Sam, holding his toy in his mouth. He drops it and it makes a little thump when it hits the carpet. He wags for a moment and then stops, as if unsure.

 

Arthur exhales. The dog comes closer, and Arthur kneels down without thinking to pet him.

 

“I'm not better, am I,” he says.

 

Sam licks his hand and wags. He's a weird dog—afraid of thunderstorms. Arthur hadn't known a dog could have phobias before. It seemed a little stupid to him. Eames told him it didn't come down to intelligence—it's just how Sam is. Arthur thinks Eames is right, after all. Sam isn't such a stupid dog. Dogs know things that people don't—they're animals, they have a special sense for these things.

 

Seems like it would be pretty simple, being a dog, but Sam takes it seriously. He knows what danger smells and sounds like. Arthur pets him and wonders if he might ever be able to transfer some of the weight of his responsibilities to Sam—to know that he could stay in his warm bed, wrapped up in Eames, because the dog will know first if something bad is happening. Is that possible? Maybe. Maybe.

 

For now he just feels stupid and tired. But he pets Sam and he feels a little bit better, because at least the dog doesn't care what he's doing or why. The dog's the only one.

 

“Let's go to bed,” Arthur says abruptly, standing up. He doesn't want Eames to wake up and find him missing. Sam cocks his head but just watches as Arthur turns the lamp off and on and off and then leaves the room. He follows, his toy in his mouth again, but curls up in the hallway to sleep, and thumps his tail lazily when Arthur stoops to pet him. “You're a good dog,” Arthur says. “You're not stupid.”

 

Sliding back into bed with Eames, Arthur thinks he can pin down the cause of his brief anxiety earlier. His birthday—that's a ritual, too, in its own way. Every year he chooses not to celebrate and nothing bad happens. Now he's acknowledged it, he's ruined the ritual. He'll have to make up for it—starting tomorrow. And he will. He'll make up for it every year. Every year that Eames is still here—he can handle having a birthday.


End file.
